Jokes for folks who sing along to both TOOL and Gordon Lightfoot in the car.

Tuesday, January 03, 2012

I Gave Birth to This Blog (For You)

Wouldn't that be a great song title?

Anyway, hi! Welcome back to the place I infrequent. How were your holidays?

My Christmas was chock-full of kiddos, as Christmases are wont to be. So naturally, conversation during one get-together eventually touched on the fact that I remain securely in the “Godmother, I love you THIS much!” card section at Hallmark. I got a bit of ribbing about the barren state of things, tick-tock and such, though I can’t imagine this type of teasing lasting many more years. (Though science continues to advance...Onward, science!)

At one point, I good-naturedly countered with, “With my luck, our kid would totally be an asshole!” And the conversation only devolved from there.

I am closer to 40 than 35, which means there is a 96% chance I will hear this from my doctor should Things Get Real: “If your ovaries have not yet crumbled to dust and actually Leggo a viable Eggo, you are a higher risk than a credit default swap circa 2005 … also, are you aware that if you do conceive, your preggo-pendi will likely become a perma-pendi?”*

I can imagine myself examining the ultrasound results with my doctor. “Ah,” she’d say, “See that? You can already see the laryngeal birth defect forming …”

“What does that mean?” I’d say, sitting up, fighting panic.

“Just that your child will never be able to form the words ‘I’m sorry,’ ‘I love you,’ ‘please,’ or ‘thank you.’

It also means he’ll probably try to set the dog on fire, steal money from his grandparents, deface church property, and there will be rashes. On a weekly basis.”

And I’d anxiously pull up my elastic-waistband pants and leave, huffing to J on the way to the car: “That’s the last time we get an ultra-sound from someone in the WalMart parking lot!”

*”Pendi” is my aunt and uncle’s shorthand for “pedunculus," defined by the Urban Dictionary as follows: “a frontbutt on women (and some men), the pedunculus is the last fatty roll before the vagina.” You're welcome.

~~~~~

In totally unrelated news, I am mulling some changes to this blog, because if I'm totally sick of looking at the layout, I can only imagine the guttural revulsion you're feeling by now. So, here are some new names I'm considering for the site:

1) Tight slacks.

2) I wanted to call this “Two Dinks and a Dog,” but some non-posting asshole already bought that domain. (Yes, the whole sentence. Maybe I'd use underscores for spaces.)

3) That’s not chili!

And now that my most entertaining neighbor is dead, what should the focus of the blog be? Lifestyle, writing, food, gardening, mommy blogger with an invisible child named Sebastian, who is allergic to soy and enjoys crafting with felt? Maybe a weekly interview with J while he reacts to something strange I make for dinner ("Yes. There are definitely subtle notes of construction adhesive at work here, though the overall mouth-feel is playful, strangely evocative of crushed tapioca"). Maybe I could give my dog a monthly guest slot, though every blog she posts would just look like this: "Bark-bark-bark-bark-bark-bark-bark--sound of butt scooting across carpet--bark-bark-bark-bark-bark--sound of retching--bark-bark!!!!" So that would get old after awhile.

Lately I have been in a state of EXTREME anxiety concerning a project at work, so maybe I could document my meltdown? I have a feeling it could be spectacular! Would I be fired if I put this footnote in my grant proposal: "As you can clearly see, the client did NOT trust my professional opinion or provide timely, detailed information. Therefore, instead of a well-developed proposal that could result in meaningful change in our community, you are being presented with a charcoal rendering of Ed Helms' profile, a strangers' grocery list that I found in a parking lot, and a selection of my Best Blogs from 2006. Enjoy!"

The kid questions...do they ever end? No? Seems like they should. My brother is childless, and I don't think my Grandma asks him about it anymore, but she asks me..."Now why do you think R & K didn't have children? Doesn't everyone want children? Do you think it's similar to him not wanting to drive?" (He doesn't have a drivers license, and at 48, he ain't gonna.)